Winter Prayers
by lumaluma
Summary: Years after Francis is gone, Arthur returns to a certain place that reminds him of everything they had. M for dark themes, mentions of sex.


_Warnings: general angst, brief mentions of sex._

_This story was inspired by the Iron & Wine song, Winter Prayers._

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The gravel road crunches under Arthur's feet as he walks down the hill, through the trees. His hands are shoved deep in the pockets of his coat to protect them from the cold. Why did he even bother coming here? He knows there isn't anything here for him, but that didn't stop him from getting in the car and driving the three hours it took to get here. He sighs, reaching the bottom of the hill and looking at the small cabin. It still looks the same, though Arthur hasn't set eyes on it in over four years. Not since Francis left. Maybe that's why he came back; he wanted to remember.

Arthur pauses, about to just turn around, march back up the hill, and drive home, but he doesn't. Instead, he approaches the cottage, looking it over. No, nothing about this place has changed at all. He walks over to the deck of the cabin, right over the lake he swam in so many times. The water is frozen now; the winter's cold even reaches this little paradise. Arthur remembers all the times he and Francis would race each other to the dock and jump in the water, and whoever won got dunked under the water in revenge.

They used to swim over to one of the little islands in the middle of the lake to jump off the rocks, since the water was deep enough there for proper diving. Francis always managed to swan dive with a grace Arthur could never achieve, always surfaced to shake his long, golden curls out of his face and laugh, calling for Arthur to dive in as well.

He smiles sadly. Now _this_ is why he came back. The memories are too good, too _happy_ for him to truly forget, even though they hurt. Everything he looks at here makes him smile and sends a stab of pain through his heart at the same time. Even the showerhead beside the lake makes him think of all the times he and Francis rinsed off after swimming in the lake, the Frenchman never able to keep his hands off of Arthur for long. Arthur slapped his hands away countless times, scolded him for his behaviour, only to have Francis smile and pull him in for a kiss. Whether they were quick, chaste, close-lipped pecks or deep, passionate messes, Francis' kisses never failed to make Arthur weak in the knees and starry-eyed. The idea that this near-god of a man wanted him, _loved _him, was almost too much, even after all the years they had known each other.

Arthur fishes in his pants pocket for the cigarettes he knows are in there, casting a quick glance to the side of the cabin to confirm that yes, that sign is still there. If You're Smoking, it proclaims, You'd Better Be On Fire. He and Francis used to defy that in their rebellious youth, passing a cigarette back and forth until it was no more than a tiny, useless stub, then one of them would press it into the wooden railing of the deck, leaving a burn mark. Scarring the wood, after a fashion. Arthur's cold fingers cause him to fumble with his lighter, but he eventually manages to light a cigarette and takes a long drag.

They quit, a few years back. He and Francis decided together they needed to quit. It had been tough, but they both agreed it was worth it. Arthur stopped caring after Francis was gone, though. Maybe part of it is because he secretly hopes the cigarettes will kill him. He doesn't really like the taste anymore, and the nicotine doesn't do anything for him, but he smokes all the same.

He turns away from the lake, leaning against the banister with all its cigarette scars, and faces the cabin. Someone has left the curtains open, and Arthur can see straight into the bedroom. How many times did he lay there, Francis' arms around him, spending countless lazy hours basking in the warm sunlight from the window and running his hands through the Frenchman's soft hair? How many times had he and Francis made love on that bed? Arthur remembers how he could always get Francis in the mood. He'd go shower after their daily dip in the lake, clean away any reeds, and rid himself of the smell of the lake water. Then he'd emerge from the bathroom with only a towel slung around his hips. Francis would already be in the bedroom, waiting for Arthur, or off in the kitchen, cooking up something fabulous with a name Arthur could never pronounce.

When he was in the bedroom, he didn't even have to get up to convince Arthur to come to him. And when he was cooking, Arthur just had to bury his face in Francis' soft, fragrant hair, likely still damp from his own shower, and press his naked chest against the Frenchman's back before he'd turn around, eyes lighting up with that sparkle he only ever got when he was about to do sinfully wonderful things to Arthur. And for Arthur, who had always felt ugly and unwanted, who had the confidence of a toadstool, being wanted in such a way was marvelous.

Francis would urge Arthur into the bedroom, to take off the towel, and Arthur would lose himself in the touches and kisses that followed until they were both naked and pressing together, Francis already sheathing himself inside of him or encouraging Arthur to take him, to press inside, to impale him on his cock. The words spilled out of his mouth in such a deliciously filthy flood that Arthur sometimes kissed him just to make it stop. They moved together, thrusting and rocking and rolling their hips and grasping at each other, kissing and touching until it became too much and they'd reach the peaks of their pleasure, crying out together.

Afterwards, Francis would cradle Arthur in his arms as they both came down from that marvelous pleasure, running his hands through Arthur's hair, his fingers skimming along Arthur's shoulders and chest in feather-light, tickling touches, his lips pressing sweet, gentle kisses and words of endearment wherever they could reach. At times like those, when Francis would call Arthur _mon ange_, _mon coeur_, _mon beau_, his angel, his heart, his beauty, Arthur believed him. He felt like he was the only thing in Francis' world that mattered, and he knew that Francis was the only thing that truly mattered to him.

He felt beautiful then, and in the warm, mellow afternoon sunlight, when the light shining around Francis seemed to give him a halo, when his skin glowed almost gold and his eyes shone, Arthur thought that maybe he had been lucky enough to have an angel fall in love with him. But no, Francis was only human.

Arthur stubs his cigarette out on the railing behind him, adding a new scar to the old ones. Francis was just a man like any other, his absence _proved_ that much. Still, those summer days where he and Francis would fish together, laugh together, cook together, everything, they seemed like heaven. But now, Arthur just stands alone, a winter chill settling in his lungs as he exhales the last of the smoke from his cigarette. He looks up at the sky through the skeletal boughs of the trees, the grey, oppressive clouds so different from the bright, sunny days of the past.

It's time to go home, he decides, and with one more glance at the cabin, he turns on his heel, going back to the gravel path that leads away from this tiny abode, this sanctuary of happy memories. As he walks up the hill, hands returning to their place at the bottom of his pockets, the wind blows in his face and he shoves his nose in his scarf. Well, it isn't really _his_ scarf, it's Francis', but Francis won't be coming back to get it. A single leaf, probably the last of the season, floats down on the breeze, and Arthur pulls one hand out of his pocket to catch it. He turns it over in his palm, inspecting the veins on the underside.

What would Francis say if he knew Arthur was here? In all likelihood, he'd apologise. "_Mon cher,_ I'm sorry," he'd say, and Arthur would smile and shake his head.

"It's all right," he murmurs, "you didn't have a choice."

With that, he realises he's reached his car, and he drops the leaf, letting it spiral down to the ground. He looks back down the hill, one last time, and then opens his car door. Arthur pulls out of the little driveway and onto the main road, and almost instantly, the tentative happiness he had felt vanishes. He's going home, but it stopped being home as soon as Francis was gone. When Arthur lost Francis, he lost everything. When he lost Francis, his whole world came crashing down around him, and he had nothing left. Arthur drank himself into a near-stupor after it happened, unable to cope with the emptiness of the house, the lack of music playing as Francis bustled about in the kitchen, and he so often wished he could just curl up in bed and never have to wake up again.

Arthur lets one hand slip from the steering wheel as he takes off the scarf and tosses it onto the passenger seat, and he feels the car swerve slightly. He grabs the wheel again immediately, the momentary panic already fading. It was just like this that Francis had gone, wasn't it? In the car, driving home from an outing, Arthur in the passenger seat. They were bickering like they always did, but it was meaningless arguing, just to pass the time on the drive home. Well, it was meaningless up until it wasn't. Arthur looked out the windshield and saw someone swerving into their lane from the opposite direction. He yelled for Francis to watch out, and Francis jerked the steering wheel the other way, but it was too late, and Arthur could only cover his face to protect himself from the splintering of metal and shattering of glass before everything went dark.

When he woke up in the hospital, the first words out of his mouth were, "Where is Francis?"

None of the nurses would tell him, so he got up out of the bed, ignoring the pain from the IV he ripped out of his hand, the ache in his shoulder and in his leg. They brought someone in to sedate him, and he turned to the doctor, was about to beg him to just let him see Francis, when the man stopped, somehow understanding the panic Arthur felt. He helped Arthur into a wheelchair to take him to Francis. As he took Arthur to an elevator, he told him that the pain in his shoulder was from a broken collarbone, and the pain in his knee was due to a shattered kneecap, but Arthur didn't care.

When he asked about Francis, the doctor just bit his lip and shook his head. He wheeled Arthur down the hallway, saying something about "unconscious" and "severe internal injuries." Arthur asked if that meant he was going to die, and the silence he received in response was enough. They finally reached the room Francis was in, and Arthur asked to be moved right next to the bed. Francis didn't look any different, a few bruises here and there were the only indication that anything had happened. But his breathing was unsteady and he didn't open his eyes when Arthur took his hand.

Only when Arthur sat himself on the bed and pulled Francis' head into his lap did Francis stir and open his eyes a tad, and he smiled weakly at Arthur. He whispered Arthur's name, so Arthur nodded, stroking his cheek gently. He leaned in to kiss Francis, barely brushing their lips together, willing the tears in his eyes not to fall. Francis then murmured that he loved Arthur, and Arthur swallowed and choked out that he loved Francis too, and then Francis closed his eyes again and stopped breathing. Just like that, he was gone.

Part of Arthur died that day as well. The part that cared. The part that smiled and laughed. The part that wanted to do something in this world. Now, all he has left is the part of him that lets him go through the motions of everyday life, unfeeling, uncaring. It's a pathetic existence, in his opinion. And it'd be so easy just to end it all…

Arthur looks further ahead down the road. He's coming up to a bridge, after all. He could just drive off, and if the impact didn't kill him, then drowning in the water below certainly would. So easy… and it would do what the years of therapy couldn't. It'd end the pain, and maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to see Francis again.

He shakes his head, disbanding those thoughts. No. He's just driving home. And when he gets there, he'll make himself some tea and go to bed. But his eyes still stray to the river as he gets closer to the bridge, and those thoughts come back. It can be just that easy, he thinks to himself, and he casts a quick glance at the scarf he had been wearing. With that, he makes up his mind.

Arthur breathes in deeply, closing his eyes, and his foot presses ever-so-slightly harder on the accelerator.

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_Thank you for reading. Any and all feedback is appreciated._


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